


love like a tongue in a nostril

by ineffablemercury



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Post-Coital Cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 08:21:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18937081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffablemercury/pseuds/ineffablemercury
Summary: Crowley blinks, and then blinks again."Cuddle?"The word sounds foreign in his mouth, and he curls his lips as soon as it passes through. It’s not a particularlydemonicword, that, but then again, he isn’t a particularlydemonicdemon, is he?





	love like a tongue in a nostril

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Aziraphale says quietly. He’s laying on his back, head tilted toward the ceiling. When he speaks, every word is pronounced carefully, thought out and mulled over. “I- I suppose... I suppose I was under the impression that that was what humans _did_ , afterwards.”

“ _Afterwards_?”

“You know what I mean,” the angel says stuffily, rolling onto his stomach. Aziraphale’s bed is spacious, or at least, it has _become_ spacious ever since Crowley compelled it to be. Despite this, Aziraphale nudges up against him, like they’re low on space. He’s absently running one of his delicately manicured fingernails over the olive tan skin of Crowley’s ribcage in little loops and swivels, tracing ornate designs better than any da Vinci or van Gogh.

“I don’t think I do, angel. Please, enlighten me.”

Aziraphale, aided by the six millennia he’s shared with his counterpart, is practically able to _sense_ the grin in Crowley’s voice without having to look up at him. He sighs, exasperated, and lays his head on the pillow squeezed next to Crowley’s own, tracing another foreign symbol on the expanse of the demon’s skin.

Crowley squirms when the angel’s pink nail deliberately rakes over the ticklish crook of his inner elbow. With a squeaky grunt, he flicks the finger away and reaches over to pinch Aziraphale’s arse in petty revenge, snickering at the resulting squawk.

The angel sits up and glares daggers in a way that makes Crowley fear for his immortal life, and for the lives of any poor shop customers who have borne the brunt of that look. He raises his hands in surrender. “Sorry, sorry. Continue.”

With one last glower, Aziraphale huffs and settles back onto his stomach, regaining his pose and renewing his trivial antics. He repeats his words from earlier, voice filled with barely-repressed tetchiness. “ _I was under the impression that_ , after engaging in sexual activities, humans often-”

“Jeez, just say _sssex_ , love.”

Aziraphale’s fingers cease their ministrations. “What?”

 _“‘Engaging in sexual activities_ ’? You sound like, like a fucking NHS plonker.”

The angel’s ears burn a disgustingly endearing shade of crimson, like they usually do whenever he's particularly vexed. “Well, what do you expect me to say, dear boy? Were those activities we were engaging in not of a sexual nature?”

“Well, _yeah_ , but there’s _so_ many other things you could call it. _Sexier_ things.” Aziraphale arches a perfectly shaped eyebrow, and Crowley continues, “Like, like, there’s _fucking_ , for one. Sounds way better, right? Oh, and _shagging_ , though that one’s a bit native, innit?”

Aziraphale groans, and buries his face into the pillow, golden locks fanning out. He is not a stranger to this conversation. “Crowley...”

“Then, of course, there’s _bonking_ , but I’ve never been particularly fond of that one, either. Sounds a bit rum, doesn’t it? ‘ _Hey, I was just bonking my angel -_ ’”

“ _Crowley_.”

“And _oh_ , you can’t forget _rumpy pumpy_ , which is a personal favourite, if I do say so mysss- _mmph!”_

His rambling is successfully stifled when Aziraphale catches his moving mouth in a kiss, and the words quickly turn into a groan when he feels a wet tongue dart between his lips. He braces his back against the headboard, and Aziraphale is practically in his fucking _lap_ , pinning him to it.

“I just wished to cuddle,” Aziraphale pants when they break apart, and his cheeks are still burning in that delectable shade of crimson. “Like humans do. _Post-coital_ , you know.”

Crowley blinks, and then blinks again. “Cuddle?” The word sounds foreign in his mouth, and he curls his lips as soon as it passes through. It’s not a particularly _demonic_ word, that, but then again, he isn’t a particularly _demonic_ demon, is he?

Aziraphale notices his thoughtful frown and ducks his head, like a kicked puppy. A sad, fluffy puppy that Crowley wants to take into his arms and shield from Above and Below forever and ever. “I understand if you don’t want to. If it makes you uncomfortable. I know how you feel about overly-sentimental gestures, my dear boy-"

“No, no,” Crowley cuts him off, because the truth is, Aziraphale _doesn’t_. He doesn’t know that the ‘spark of goodness’ extends to the inclusion of soppy gestures like _cuddling_. Shit, even _Crowley_ was oblivious to the fact that he was a slag for close-contact; he’d only _just_ figured that out. “We can, uh. We can cuddle, if that’s what you want.”

“Is it what _you_ want?” Aziraphale implores, leaning right in his face, but Crowley isn’t complaining because the proximity gives him a clear view of the angel’s eyes, and he’s able to categorise every distinct shade of the colour blue.

“Yeah,” he finds himself saying, quite breathlessly. He forces himself to tear his gaze away from an intermingled tinge of sapphire and cerulean, and clears his throat. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

It occurs to him then that if Hell were to impose upon them at this very moment, they’d find him pinned to the headboard by a cuddly angel, and would probably discorporate him in a way that was irreversible.

It also occurs to him that he doesn’t really give a _damn_ , and that Hell can go fuck itself with a flaming dildo for all he cares.

“Be a dear and get the lights, will you?” Aziraphale asks after a moment, pecking the corner of Crowley’s mouth. Crowley murmurs his assent, and moves to do so.

He gets the lamp while Aziraphale gets the duvet, and then they’re cocooned in the darkness. Crowley rolls over until he’s facing Aziraphale, and his hand reaches to guide the angel’s chin into another chaste, close-mouthed kiss, which is a stark contrast to the kind of snogs he usually initiates. This one feels like the fore-warning to satiation, the promise of a rich meal to come, and Aziraphale shivers against him and Crowley thinks, a little hysterically, _huh, I did that_.

When they pull apart, their faces have flushed and their breathing has laboured, as it always does. Over the course of time (and through much coaxing, on Aziraphale’s behalf) they had come to terms with the fact that, despite them being a few centuries into their relationship (or, _amorous entanglement_ , depending on who you asked) every kiss they shared still felt as raw and ardent as their first. It still sent shivers down their spines, still sent their inessential hearts into a frenzy.

But it was like that, Crowley had discerned a couple of centuries ago, when you were _completely_ arse-over-tits in love.

They pass out somewhere along the line, with Aziraphale curled around Crowley like a deep sea squid attempting to make friends with a submarine. It’s strangely nice, because Aziraphale is soft and warm and clingy and there’s so much of him to _hold_ , so much to be held _by_.

He thinks he falls asleep with a stupidly soppy smile on his face that Below would annihilate him for gracing, a smile that can only be described as utterly _lovestruck_.


End file.
